Mage's Blood

11

Graduation

Magic and Ethics

There are many ways in which the gnosis can be used. As some are unpleasant, harmful, immoral, or bestow unfair commercial or social advantage, there are codes of behaviour required of magi. These are strictly enforced by the Inquisition. The Inquisition resides as part of the Kore and is answerable directly to the emperor.

ORDO COSTRUO COLLEGIATE, PONTUS

Norostein, Noros, on the continent of Yuros

Noveleve 927

8 months until the Moontide

Noveleve brought the first flurries of snow to the streets of Norostein, making the cobbles treacherous. The Alps to the south turned wholly white and the clouds closed in. Buckets of water iced up and fires billowed smoke as frigid wind swirled through cracks and crannies. The watchmen wrapped thick woollen scarves about their helms and huddled around braziers warming their hands and sipping from flasks of brandy. The bitter winds brought illness, streaming noses and hacking coughs. Every day someone else was found dead in the shanties on the northern side, usually a rake-thin homeless child who had given up and lain down to die.

Each morning the recruits for the Crusade marched down to the stableyards on the Lukhazan road, singing hymns. There were thousands of them, practising with spear, sword and bow. Some days Alaron and Ramon went to watch. The young recruits stared at them curiously, but stayed away, their eyes filled with something between resentment and awe. Magi were far above the common soldier.

This morning they had a different errand, visiting Alaron’s mother in her country manor. His father had lent them horses. The town woke, summoned to the dawn service by sonorous bells, as they wound their way through the streets. Outside the city walls the ground was white and the hills merged seamlessly with the clouds until it felt like they were moving inside a smoky white bubble. Sound travelled for miles, from the axe-blows of the woodcutters on the high slopes to the calls of the farmhands herding their beasts. Crows cawed as they hunted and squirrels chattered from the branches of ice-encrusted trees.

Ramon puffed warm breath over his hands, sending steamy clouds into the air. ‘Mater-Luna, it is cold. I should be in bed, not sitting on this bastard horse.’ He glared at Alaron. ‘It’s all your fault.’

‘You didn’t have to come,’ Alaron replied. ‘I owe Mother a visit, now the exams are over. And I seem to recall you saying how nice it would be to go for a ride, so how good of me to arrange it for you!’

‘Yes, but I was talking about that barmaid last night.’ Ramon smirked. ‘She was flirting with me, I swear.’

Alaron rolled his eyes. ‘Gina Weber is prettier.’

Ramon’s mouth twitched. ‘Coming round, are you?’

Alaron shrugged. ‘Everyone is treating it like a done deal, and I don’t appear to have a say in it so I might as well look on the bright side.’

‘Welcome to the real world,’ said Ramon. ‘I’ve probably already been sold off by my village. I’ll arrive home and be married the next day. At least she’ll be Rimoni, not some big fat northern milkmaid with a butt like the rear-end of a cow.’

Alaron gave him what he hoped was a steely look. ‘Better that than a scrawny Silacian twig.’ They glared, then grinned at each other. ‘Anyway, Mother’s housekeeper Gretchen bakes honey-cakes on Freyadai. We should arrive just as they come out of the oven.’

‘Okay, you have my interest again.’

‘Do Silacians keep their brains in their belly?’ laughed Alaron. ‘Hey, listen, Father says the emperor himself is at his Winter Court in Bricia – that’s only a few days’ ride north of us, isn’t it, just across the border. Governor Vult is there too, he said, everyone important – even Empress-Mother Lucia.’ He made the sign of Kore.

‘They’re all thieves and murderers,’ sniffed Ramon, who liked to say outrageous things.

‘Not the Empress-Mother,’ asserted Alaron. ‘She’s a living saint! Everyone loves her.’

‘You’re such an innocent! It never ceases to amaze me: it’s only a few years since the Revolt, and yet you Noromen still believe such shit. Living saints – ha! We Silacians do not forget that Lucia Fasterius probably murdered her husband, changed the succession so that her favourite son wrongfully became emperor and has been virtual ruler ever since. We Rimoni have not got such short memories!’ He tapped the side of his skull. ‘Near my village there’s this valley where a Fire-mage trapped a Rimoni centurion and his men in the trees and burnt them all alive. The ground is still ash-black. My village might have a Kore church, but there are Sollan drui in the forest who keep the old hallows.’

‘It was an amazing feat though,’ Alaron mused, ‘to conquer all of Yuros with three hundred magi.’

‘Three Hundred Ascendants,’ Ramon corrected him. ‘That’s enough power to burn the Sun! Don’t forget, the Rimoni legions had no cavalry or archers then, they just threw javelins – fat lot of good that would be against a flying Ascendant two hundred feet above. It would’ve been like a turkey-hunt. These days there’s better armour, better weaponry and better tactics, and the Ascendants are all dead or senile and drooling into bibs.’

Alaron threw up his hands and laughed. ‘I would just love it if you said these things in class. Can you imagine Mistress Yune if you did? The old battle-axe would turn purple.’

‘I didn’t want to get thrown out until I had completed,’ sniffed Ramon.

‘It’ll all be over next week,’ Alaron said with a grin. ‘Graduation – I can’t wait!’

‘Si, that’s the only thing keeping me here. Just give me a periapt and I’ll leave gratefully. Even if they don’t, I’ll get hold of one. You can get anything in Silacia.’

‘But if you don’t graduate they’ll not give you licence to use the gnosis!’

‘Who’d know? The Rondians never come to my village. They all live in legion camps, and the nearest is forty miles away from where I live. There are so few Rimoni magi – even if I don’t graduate I’ll be treated like a king at home.’ He looked at Alaron. ‘What about you, amici? You going to be a good boy, marry Gina and work for your father?’

Alaron sighed. ‘I don’t know yet. Maybe I impressed one of the recruiters? My Auntie Elena was a Volsai – perhaps they might want me too.’

Ramon screwed up his nose. ‘You don’t want to be one of those bastido, Al. There’s only one thing we hate more than a legion battle-mage and that’s a sneaking Volsai, scrying out secrets and locking up people to torture and blackmail. If those fellators offer you a job, you tell them where to shove it.’

‘Aunt Elena isn’t like that – she was a Grey Fox.’

‘Then she’s the only decent Volsai there ever was.’

Presently they entered the woods about Anborn Manor. He’d been born here, lived here the first eight years of his life, tended by a nurse and then a private tutor while his father was off trading. His mother would lie abed, or sit propped in a chair. She was always in pain from badly healed wounds. Her face was drawn, her scarred hands like the claws of a gargoyle. Her ruined eye-sockets were empty, though she could still see by using the gnosis. He’d always found it unsettling, the way her scarred sockets followed him sometimes.

His parents’ marriage had disintegrated gradually. Father always said she had been a laughing, vibrant young woman once, when he’d fallen in love with her, even though she was magi and he was just a soldier, captain of the squad assigned to protect her. Though the Crusade had been cruel to her, leaving her burned and broken, Father had stayed loyal to her, and soon after their marriage Alaron had been born. For a time they had been something like happy, then Tesla had turned back into herself, tormented by her disfigurement. Her screaming used to wake the whole house as she unconsciously set the bed linen alight, tortured by nightmares of dark faces closing in. During the daytime she was bleak and bitter, taking it all out on Vann. It had seemed to the young Alaron that she was trying to drive her husband away, despite all he’d done for her. He didn’t understand her, and neither did Vann. Father had taken Alaron and moved into their current house in Norostein when he couldn’t bear it any more, leaving Tesla behind in the Manor with servants to tend her. He paid, and Auntie Elena sent money whenever she could. Alaron sometimes suspected his father had never forgiven himself for not staying.

Alaron had only met his Aunt Elena a few times. She was a curt, hard-faced woman with a dancer’s body. Last time she’d questioned him at length over his skills, listened blank-faced to his statements about what was and wasn’t fair in the world and then lost interest. She was no friend of his father’s either – he’d heard them arguing after he was sent to bed. He hadn’t seen her for four years, but at least she kept the money coming.

The woods were tangled and dank, the trees choked with twisted vines and ivy. Crows were the only birds that thrived, and their harsh cawing grated on the boys. Then Anborn Manor suddenly loomed out of the trees, revealed in all its dilapidated glory. The lawns had degenerated into matted clumps thick with frost and the pond was covered in black ice. There were broken shutters and missing roof tiles, and dead moss blackened the walls. The whole edifice looked as if it were slowly tumbling down. A single wisp of smoke rose from one of the many chimneys, blue-grey against the stark sky.

‘Look, there’s Gretchen,’ said Alaron, pointing to Mother’s housekeeper, his old nurse, who was lifting an armload of firewood. She was wrapped in a faded red blanket that was stained with ash and dirt. Her hair was white as the frost.

‘Master Alaron,’ she wheezed, ‘come in, come in – I’m about to open the oven.’

After they’d tethered the horses beside an old stone water trough and kicked a hole in the ice Alaron hugged Gretchen. Ramon offered to rub the animals down while Alaron helped her with the wood. She has to be sixty by now, he thought with a faint chill. She’d aged badly these past few years.

Alaron found his mother in her old rocker in the sitting room, wrapped in a blanket. She cringed at the sound of the door opening. He had once seen an oil painting of her, done before she left for Hebusalim: she’d been a vibrant, redheaded beauty, like a robin dancing in the sunlight. Her hair was grey now, and her eyeless face ghastly.

‘It’s me, Ma.’ He went up to her and kissed her forehead. She smelled of confinement and old age. He backed away quickly and found a seat.

‘So, you’ve finally remembered you have a mother, eh?’ Her voice rasped like sandpaper.

‘You know I had exams, Mother. They finished last week.’

‘Did you?’ she said, with little interest. ‘All grown up now, eh? Off to fight the rag-heads, are you?’

‘I don’t know yet. Father wants me to work with him.’

‘Better that than war, boy. I should know, shouldn’t I?’ She clenched and unclenched her ruined hands. The healers had tried to repair them, but they were near-useless.

‘Everyone is going—’

‘Let them go – they’re all fools. Let ’em all burn. You stay whole and safe, boy, that’s my advice, take it or leave it.’ She scowled. ‘Is Vann still trying to pawn you off on that self-important little Weber girl?’

‘Uh, yes.’

‘Huh. Don’t waste yourself on her, boy. Do I hear your thieving Silacian friend outside?’

‘Uh, yeah. Um, the governor was at the exams. For the first part, anyway.’

‘Belonius rukking Vult?’ She leaned forward. ‘Silk-mouthed piece of dung sold us all down the river at Lukhazan. I wouldn’t trust him to tend piglets.’

Alaron gave up trying to have a normal conversation and looked about. The windows were so dirty you couldn’t see through them. Heat radiated from the overloaded fireplace. He wished he’d never come, just like always.

Finally Ramon came in, flushed from seeing to the horses. ‘Good morning, Lady Tesla. There’s a windship over the valley, flying in from the northeast. Is there a shipping lane through here now?’

‘No, they all swing north of here and take the Kedron Valley into Bricia. They must have a blind navigator.’ She sneered bitterly.

‘Come and see, Al,’ said Ramon. ‘I reckon it’s one of the Norostein fleet.’ They excused themselves quickly. ‘How is she?’ Ramon whispered.

‘Good,’ Alaron replied. ‘In one of her better moods.’ It was true: she hadn’t sworn at him yet, or called him an ungrateful wretch.

Outside, they shaded their eyes and squinted at the silhouette making its way towards the Manor. ‘What are they doing?’ Alaron wondered aloud. ‘There’s nothing out here. They’re going to be dragging their keel through the woods if they don’t get some lift.’ He squinted. ‘Look, that’s a landing signal,’ he added in surprise, pointing to a rigger waving a pennant.

‘Rukka mio, it is too!’ Ramon exclaimed.

The shadow of the windship fell over them and a huge anchor plummeted from the hull, its chain rattling. The anchor struck the turf, gouging the lawn until it bit and dragged the ship to a halt. Shouting men furled the sails, ladders were thrown down and a squad of soldiers descended, led by a sergeant. ‘We’re looking for Lady Tesla Anborn,’ he said. ‘Does she dwell here?’

‘Yes sir,’ said Alaron quickly, trying to make a good impression. ‘She’s inside. I’m her son.’

The sergeant was an older man with a bristly stubble and heavy jowls. He seemed friendly enough. ‘Vann’s boy, eh? My name’s Harft – I know your Da.’ He called up to the windship. ‘This is the place, Grand-Magister, and she’s in.’

‘Excellent.’ A mage leapt lightly from the side of the windship and floated some thirty yards to the ground, his control immaculate. He was middle-aged, balding and sleekly plump, dressed in rich red and gold clothing, with an iron chain about his neck: a council mage. Alaron thought he recognised him from the city, though he couldn’t recall the name. ‘Who are these boys, Harft?’

‘I’m Alaron Mercer, sir,’ Alaron said. ‘This is my friend Ramon Sensini. We’re student magi, sir.’

The council mage took in Ramon’s foreign name and looks with a narrowing of the eyes. He looked at Alaron. ‘My business here is with your mother,’ he said brusquely. ‘It is council business.’

Alaron wondered what on Urte it could be. ‘My mother is an invalid, sir. I’ll take you to her.’

The council mage shrugged. ‘Very well. Your friend can wait here. I am Grand-Magister Eli Besko. You’ll have heard of me.’ He strode towards the house. Alaron threw a worried glance at Ramon, then hurried after him. The sergeant grunted and followed.

Grand-Magister Besko paused to allow Alaron to open the door for him and then strode into the house, ignoring Gretchen. ‘Show me to Lady Anborn,’ he ordered, and Alaron felt a coil of anger at the man’s manner, Grand-Magister or not. But he did as he was told.

The sergeant came in behind, throwing an apologetic look at Gretchen.

Tesla Anborn stiffened as Alaron opened the door to the sitting-room. ‘Mother, there is a council mage here. He says that—’

Besko interrupted. ‘My name is Grand-Magister Eli Besko. You will know of me.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘Besko? Found an office job during the Revolt, I recall. Yes, I remember you, Eli Besko. How is your fourth wife? Managed to find one you can quicken yet? It’s a shame buggery doesn’t work that way.’

‘I will keep this brief,’ Besko stated, his face colouring.

‘Good. The less time you spend here the better.’

Besko scowled, then drew himself up. ‘Your sister, Elena Anborn, has betrayed the emperor. She has been declared a traitor and a price placed upon her head. Her assets are subject to seizure. Consequently her majority share in Anborn Manor has become the property of the Crown. You are hereby evicted, with effect from month-end. If you have any contact with her, you are to report it to the council immediately. That is all.’ He looked around the gloomy room. ‘It will probably benefit your health to get out of this rat-infested pit anyway.’

Alaron stared at the man in horror, but his mother just laughed harshly. ‘So, Elena finally became a liability to that shifty creep Gurvon Gyle, did she? I hope she sold him down the river for all he had.’

Besko ignored her. ‘Madam, you have until 30 Noveleve to find some other filthy hovel in which to end your years.’ He half-turned away, then paused, looking at her slyly. ‘I understand you have a good library here.’ He jingled a purse before her blind face. ‘I have gold.’

‘Go and stick it up your boyfriend’s arse.’

Besko snorted, spat into her lap and turned.

He ran straight into Alaron’s fist.

Alaron had been seething from the moment Besko addressed his mother, and his temper stoked higher at every word. Besko’s message shocked him: that Elena could be a traitor was inconceivable, however little he knew her. That the council could strip away his family’s property was surely wrong. And the man’s manner was insufferable. He was swinging before he’d even thought the thing through, and his fist hammered into the man’s nose with a satisfying crunch, sending the Grand-Magister reeling.

Before he could follow up, big arms enveloped him from behind and Sergeant Harft hissed in his ear, ‘Stop it, you fool!’

Alaron struggled furiously until Magister Besko’s bleeding furious face pushed into his and all of the air in his throat stopped moving. For an instant he didn’t recognise what the Magister was doing, then he panicked, flailing desperately, unable to make a sound. He tried to counter the Air-gnosis, but without a periapt his efforts were pitiful. His vision swam as Besko laughed and pulled back his fist.

‘Sir, stop – he’s just a boy—’ Sergeant Harft swung Alaron bodily away from the blow. ‘Your career, sir!’

That made Besko pause. He wiped his bloody nose on his sleeve and glowered at the sergeant. ‘What does it matter if I throttle the little turd?’ He twisted his hand and the force tightened around Alaron’s throat.

His mother snarled distantly as Alaron felt himself begin to pass out, and then all of a sudden the pressure was gone and he fell against the sergeant, gulping down air despite the pain.

Besko spat again. ‘Ah, I suppose you’re right, Sergeant. He’s not worth it.’ Besko’s face loomed in front of Alaron. ‘Hear that, boy? You’re not worth it, and you never will be.’ He turned back and repeated, ‘Out by the thirtieth, you old hag,’ then stormed out of the room.

Sergeant Harft gently set Alaron on his feet. ‘Are you okay, lad?’

Alaron tried to speak, but his throat was agony. He nodded.

‘I’m sorry, lad. I had no idea what this visit was about. I am sorry, ma’am.’

‘Get out of here, Harft,’ Alaron’s mother snapped, then her voice mellowed. ‘And tell your Maggie hello from me.’

Harft nodded as he backed out. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

Alaron sat on the floor and massaged his throat.

‘So, you’ve got the family temper, have you?’ Tesla said. ‘There might be hope for you yet. But you’ve got about as much sense as your aunt.’

‘Wha—?’ Alaron tried again, as the pain in his throat lessened. ‘What did Auntie Elena do?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Tesla snorted. ‘Volsai business. They’re all evil rukkers, those pricks. Your aunt fitted right in, I’m sure. She was a heartless little snot. But she knows how to sink a knife in. I hope she gave those bastards hell.’

The Great Hall of Norostein was packed with the well-to-do of Norostein, especially the magi, for this was a night for all of the descendants of the Blessed Three Hundred to show off their wealth and status as the newest graduates were welcomed into the fold. Marriage alliances would be made or confirmed, careers would be launched. Rich non-magi paraded their own children, hoping to catch the eye of the young men and women who were the centre of attention: the day belonged to the graduates.

Normally the governor presided, but as matters of state required his presence at the Winter Court in Bres, the Noros king was here. His position had been emasculated since the Revolt, but the twenty-two-year-old king was nonetheless an important figure. His father had been executed after the Revolt and he himself had spent most of his life confined in Lukhazan Palace. The slim, rather timid young man looked out enviously at the real powerbrokers of his kingdom.

Alaron was in his best grey robes. His hair had been cut and glowed reddish in the gnosis-lamps festooning the hall. His father was with him. His mother was still at the manor, after his father lodged papers with the council to forestall the eviction. The papers proved Elena’s funding was legally a gift and therefore could not be confiscated, and thus Tesla Anborn could not be evicted – but without Elena’s payments they could not afford to keep the manor anyway. It made Alaron’s graduation all the more imperative.

Ramon, standing beside Alaron, was tricked out in his Sabbadai best, but neither could match the opulence of the Pure as they swanned about in gilded velvet hose and doublets, fingers adorned with gold rings, their fine leather boots polished to a mirror-finish. All the women sighed at Malevorn, Seth and Francis as they swaggered past, bowing to all of the graduation candidates from the girls’ Arcanum, kissing hands and making florid compliments that had the girls simpering and blushing. Alaron watched the trail of adoration they left behind with disgust. Then he saw the Webers arrive and ducked behind a pillar, but he hadn’t been quick enough. Gina, a serious-looking girl, detached herself from her father and walked towards them. Her straight blonde hair was coiled into an old-fashioned bun; she looked like she was intent on going straight from schoolgirl to matron.

‘Hello, Alaron.’ She held out her hand. She was wearing a green and gold velvet gown with a plunging neckline that drew his eye despite himself.

‘Uh, hi,’ he answered weakly. He stared at her hand. What—? Oh yeah! He flushed red and bent over it, not quite making contact.

Gina struck a pose. ‘How did your exams go? Are you confident? My best was in Clairvoyance and Divination.’

‘Um, good. Yeah.’

Ramon leaned in. ‘Buona sera, Donna Weber.’

She snatched her hand away. ‘Oh, hello – are you still here? What was your name, sorry?’

‘Shaitan. This is part of my realm.’

Gina curled her lip faintly. ‘Mmm. Oh look, Father wants me.’ She pointed to where her father was bending Vann’s ear. ‘Shall we join them, Alaron?’ She offered her arm.

‘Um, I – I’ll just get a drink. Ramon?’

Gina sighed irritably and stalked away.

‘Changed your mind again, amici?’

‘She’s an insipid cow.’

‘Nice wide hips, though,’ observed Ramon. ‘Good for child-bearing.’ Alaron blushed while Ramon cackled, discomforting the well-to-do families about them.

‘You’re disgusting,’ declared Alaron. ‘I’m going to miss you.’

‘Of course you are. Being stuck alone with Donna Weber will be no fun for you at all. No sense of humour.’ Ramon snickered. ‘Fills a bodice nicely, though.’

Naturally, the Pure couldn’t resist calling past. ‘Ah, the two failures,’ sneered Malevorn. ‘I’m surprised you bothered to turn up at all. Neither of you will pass – especially you, you little Silacian slime,’ he told Ramon.

Francis Dorobon looked down his nose at them. ‘You know, my kingdom has thousands of Rimoni scum in it. You can’t trust any of them. They’re all thieves and liars.’

Ramon eyed Francis. ‘Then why don’t you go back and see how long it is before you get a stiletto in the back, O Beloved King?’

‘My family’s restoration to the throne of Javon is well in train,’ Dorobon said loftily. ‘The Crusade will ensure my rightful place is returned. I think my first act as king will be to round up all the Rimoni vagrants and have them crucified.’

Alaron took a step towards Francis, angry words forming, but Malevorn interposed himself and they stared into each other’s eyes, noses nearly touching. ‘You have something to say, Mercer?’

All of the beatings he had taken at Malevorn’s hands flashed before his eyes, and every drop of resentment sang in his mind. ‘Yeah, I’ve got something to say. You’re a gutless coward who—’

Malevorn spat in his face and he spat back, his spittle striking a small shielding an inch from Malevorn’s face. The pure-blood blew it back nonchalantly, spattering Alaron’s own spit into his face. ‘Got something in your eye, Mercer?’ He smiled. ‘Don’t make an exhibition of yourself just yet. You wouldn’t want to be thrown out and miss the big show.’ He turned away.

Alaron grabbed his shoulder. ‘Hands off, you little worm,’ he snarled and grabbed Alaron’s wrist, wrenching it painfully. ‘Don’t ever touch me again. Ever.’ He shoved Alaron back and he and his friends swaggered away.

Alaron winced, but the worst thing was seeing other mage-born parents smirking behind their hands at his discomfort.

A bell rang and a herald proclaimed the beginning of the ceremony. They filed into the main hall where the governor heard plaintives and supplicants. His ornate throne remained empty in his absence; the king had to sit in a plainer seat below it. All about the room, the pillars and arches were carved into leaf-motifs gilded with gold paint. The painted ceiling depicted the ascension of Corineus. Crystal chandeliers captured and radiated the myriad gnosis lights, and the guests glittered no less. Ladies wearing necklaces with centre-stones of priceless sea-pearl walked gracefully on the arms of magi luminaries. The talk was boastful, while unseen currents of rivalry and influence pushed and pulled.

Alaron tried to restore his spirits by picturing himself as one of them. I am a quarter-blood after all. That’s not so bad. If I can distinguish myself on Crusade … He pictured an audience with the Noros king, no longer a puppet but with full regal authority. Rise, Lord Alaron, Emancipator of the Realm, approach the throne of your grateful king!

Right now, the king looked more like a sulky youth as he called for the ceremony to begin. ‘Lords and Ladies of Noros, I ask Grand-Magister Besko to begin proceedings,’ he said without enthusiasm.

Besko! Alaron felt a tightening of his throat, as if his windpipe could remember the man.

The Grand-Magister began a speech written by Governor Vult, recalling the great traditions of the Noroman magi, speaking of the past glories of those who had graduated from these two premier colleges, Turm Zauberin and Saint Yvette’s Arcanum. Names of the better-known past graduates were invoked, many of them present in this room and all of them pure-bloods. None of the generals of the Revolt were named except Vult himself, though many were graduates, and Auntie Elena didn’t rate a mention either. The speech did recall Vult’s own ‘happy memories’ of college life, commended the graduates for their efforts and wished them well for their glittering futures in service to the emperor. To Alaron it went on for ever.

Then Principal Lucien Gavius took the stage. He too rattled on for hours, and Alaron’s impatience became feverish. He reassured himself by rating his own performance in the exams. By his reckoning his final mark should be in the seventies, well above the requisite fifty-nine and enough for a bronze star – lowest of the merit awards, but still respectable.

Then Gavius was joined on stage by the principal of Saint Yvette’s, who called forward her graduates. Gina looked radiantly confident as she received a silver star, a very creditable graduation. No wonder Da is so keen on her. He bit his lip, feeling as if the walls were closing in, narrowing his future.

Then it was the turn of the boys of Turm Zauberin. Gavius beamed about the room. ‘Lords and Ladies, some years stand out more than others, and this is of course due to the quality of the candidates. This year, we have been blessed with not one but three candidates of unsurpassed quality. I truly believe this year will one day be recalled with wonder, that three such blessed young men illuminated our ancient and revered towers.’

Ramon made a gagging gesture to Alaron.

‘The first of these exceptional young men is Malevorn Andevarion.’ Malevorn stood and walked into the middle of the room to collect his results. Mothers’ eyes brightened, ageing spinsters licked their lips and daughters clutched their breasts. With his black hair curled about his shoulders, his mature and regal face caught the myriad light and reflected it as if he were haloed, the embodiment of the legendary warrior-magi of the Rimoni Conquests. ‘Malevorn is the son of Jaes Andevarion, the great general whose service to the emperor is well-remembered for valiant courage in the face of adversity,’ Gavius went on. Alaron snorted softly; Malevorn’s father had been a failure and a suicide, disgraced by his defeats at Robler’s hands in the Revolt. ‘Malevorn has been a revelation, not only for his superlative skill and impeccable breeding, but also his single-minded pursuit of excellence. He has been a model student, ever courteous, thoughtful and supportive of his fellows. He has even attained the status of trance-mage, the first in many years whilst still at college.’ This revelation earned an appreciative gasp and rich applause. Alaron watched Malevorn soaking it up, visibly fighting to look humble. If only they knew what kind of bullying creep you really are, he thought dourly. Then he reflected, It probably wouldn’t make a jot of difference. They’d admire you even more.

Gavius awarded Malevorn a gold star, the highest merit. ‘Malevorn has accepted a commission in the Kirkegarde, the protectors of the faith. A career of unsurpassed glory awaits.’ Gavius took up a periapt of pearl and placed it into his waiting hands. Malevorn could no longer contain himself. He raised his hands to the skies and roared, displaying the glittering gem. Everyone in the crowd applauded at this apparent display of youthful exuberance. Alaron saw it as sheer triumphal arrogance.

After a minute of milking the applause, Malevorn moved to stand to the left of the king’s throne. The king looked envious, and oddly insignificant beside him. Gavius started again. ‘The second of my “Golden Trio” is Francis Dorobon, the rightful king of Javon. Francis has been a model student who will be sorely missed. To know him is to understand the true nature of breeding, both in terms of gnosis and in terms of manners, dignity and carriage. I commend to you, Lords and Ladies, Prince Francis Dorobon of Javon.’ More applause, more swaggering. Another gold star.

Alaron watched all of this back-slapping with distaste. When I get my periapt, I’ll accept it quietly, not prance around like a show pony.

Gavius said, ‘Normally we give the graduation periapts in alphabetic order, but I am taking the liberty of slightly amending the order. I apologise to these young men for the slight change of protocol when they are clearly dying to know their results. But it is only proper to now welcome to the stage the third of my Golden Trio, Seth Korion, son of Kaltus Korion, Marshal of the South.’

More restrained applause rippled about the room. Alaron wondered whether it was because people remembered Korion from the Revolt, or whether they just knew that Seth was a little prig with no backbone. It would be nice to think it was the latter, if unlikely, he admitted to himself.

Gavius fussed over Seth for a while, but his words were more hollow than those bestowed upon Malevorn and Francis. He noted that General Korion couldn’t make his own son’s graduation, due to the same need that had summoned the governor away. ‘It must be something big,’ Alaron heard someone mutter. Seth looked stiff and pale as he bowed before the Grand-Magister, receiving his gold star.

You shouldn’t have even passed, Korion, Alaron thought grimly, remembering the boy’s breakdown at the weaponry test. I wonder who the exalted Marshal bribed to ensure his son wasn’t failed.

The three graduates stood alongside the throne, not looking at each other. Alaron wondered how they really got on. Egos that size always bump, his father said whenever he saw powerful men together. But Gavius was graduating Boron Funt, who was of course joining the Church. Gron Koll was next, smirking all the while as if he had just played a tremendous joke on everyone there – but none of his ‘friends’ shook his hand now that they were parting ways. He gave no sign of caring.

Gavius then called for attention. ‘Lords and Ladies, I call Alaron Mercer.’

Alaron’s heart lurched. He walked forward, feeling as if the air were turning to treacle. He saw faces turn curiously to see the next candidate, politely clapping. He bowed to the king as if in a dream and stood expectantly before Gavius, just wanting to get this over with. Keep your head down, play it cool. He caught his father’s eye, and he nodded encouragingly.

‘Lords and Ladies, the candidate Alaron Mercer, Mage of the Third Rank, has earned a bronze star for his efforts in the examinations.’ Phew! He allowed himself to smile, as Gavius continued, ‘But there is another test our students must pass.’ He had adopted a sombre tone. ‘That is the test of character. In the case of Alaron Mercer, we have found a young man whose ill-temper, insolent bearing, atheist leanings and violent manner are ill-fitted to bear the periapt and serve the empire. We therefore withhold the periapt and declare Alaron Mercer a failed magi. He is forbidden to practise the gnosis or to bear a periapt henceforth, at the pleasure of the Crown.’

The whole crowd stared, utterly stunned. Alaron felt his knees wobble. Only the conviction that he was hallucinating kept him from falling to the floor. But Gavius looked solid and real as he drew himself up, pointed condemningly and thundered the renunciation: ‘Alaron Mercer, the Kore and the empire reject you! Get you gone from this place!’

The room was utterly silent. Every eye was upon him. No one had been failed for years, and certainly never on these sort of grounds. He felt as if the ground was gone, that he was both floating and falling, for ever hanging before all the judging eyes. Malevorn’s face was alight with pure pleasure. Francis Dorobon was beaming, his features twisted into gloating joy. Seth Korion stared at him wide-eyed, like someone who has just seen a dead man sit up.

Then his father was shouting, ‘Gavius you fat shit – you can’t do this! You show me your Charter! You show me what gives you the right! I challenge you, you bloated sot – show me!’ Other voices were raised, but Alaron couldn’t tell what they were saying. His ears were ringing, and the words meant nothing. He stared blankly at the fleshy face of the headmaster, and then at the confused and impotent face of the king. Besko was grinning gleefully, pointing a finger at the door. Hands clamped onto his shoulders as sudden fury made him lunge forward, but the guards had him firmly and dragged him out of the hall into the vast emptiness of the reception hall. He saw his father being pulled along behind him, not struggling but shouting, ‘I’ll see you fired, Gavius!’

I’ve been failed. This can’t be real. This can’t be real.

The guards released them at the top of the stairs. His father put his arm around Alaron’s shoulders. ‘We’re going to fight this, son, I promise you. They can’t do this – not on a character assessment. I’m going to take this all the way to the governor if I need to.’ He squeezed Alaron tightly.

Alaron had a sinking feeling in his stomach. The faces of the Pure floated before him, Besko’s face and Gavius’ smirk. He thought about Governor Vult, as pure-blood as they come. What would he care of an injustice done to a quarter-blood merchant’s boy? They’ll never let me pass.

Vann Mercer fought hard for his son, but Lucien Gavius refused to see him and the council stalled him at every turn. His own work suffered while he wasted hours trying to see council members. The Weber family disappeared from his social circle, and so did all the other magi families he knew, to his pain and surprise. He had thought many genuine friends.

Ramon had gained the minimal pass allowable, conditional upon his joining a legion in time for the Crusades and serving for four years. He stayed with Alaron almost every minute. It didn’t occur to Alaron until later that it was to ensure he didn’t harm himself, as almost every failed mage tried to do. But even Ramon couldn’t stay for ever; he needed to return to his village in Silacia, to see to his mother and arrange his affairs before his legion duties commenced.

‘I will be married before my feet touch ground,’ Ramon joked before he left, but that just reminded Alaron that the Webers had broken off negotiations. He could not even bring himself to wave goodbye.

The festival of the Birth of Corineus passed him by. His father bought presents on Alaron’s behalf, because his son didn’t have the courage to leave the house. There was no love for failed magi out there; they were easy targets for every bully in the neighbourhood, with no protection from the authorities.

When Vann Mercer finally cornered the Mayor, he was told to stop wasting council time and to desist from his harassment of city officials. He stalked out, vowing to see the governor himself when he returned from the Winter Court. But Alaron curled up into a ball beneath his rug beside the fireplace and closed his eyes. He lay there for hours and let the fire go out.